My husband's pretty cool, but he's not as cool as me
by Insomniabug aka BabyBrown
Summary: the one where our spies are in a hostage situation.


There's a gun pressed to his head.

He knows it would take him less than six seconds to disarm the man, probably less if he really tried, but he couldn't risk it. He wouldn't risk it. Not with Gaby sitting a mere foot away from him, uncharacteristically silent and still.

Illya would risk his own life for the mission, maybe even Solo's, but never _hers_.

It was so stupid, and so incredibly humiliating. Having been so caught up with a suddenly radio silent Napoleon, Illya forgot to check their backup car for intruders, and somehow missed the crouching man hiding in the backseat. Now, with the cold muzzle of a gun pressed menacingly to the back of his head, she was paying for his mistake as Illya drives them towards dangers unknown.

It takes all his energy to concentrate on the road; to not give in to the siren call of his KGB training.

"Illya."

Gaby whispers, softly and calmly, and everything he is not. He tilts his head slightly towards her, but says nothing. The corners of his mouth sag with the weight of a mission gone wrong, and she knows how severely he's reprimanding himself. Knows his mind is still turning with ways to get them out of this situation. She doesn't need him to verbally respond as she knows him well enough to know his tells now.

Illya feels her hand reach across the small space between them, coming to rest over his hand on the gear shift. He hadn't realized how badly he had been shaking until she closed her hand around his, slotting her fingers between his and holding tight. Her wedding ring, a smaller version of the one on his left hand, and both entirely picked out by her, is strangely warm and throbbing against his skin. Almost as of it were alive and it's tiny heart was beating.

(He thinks of her engagement ring, the one they never talk about, resting on a chain beneath her clothes, nestled safely against her heart.)

Illya takes a deep breath, anchors himself to her, and keeps driving.

 _Calm yourself._

She's trying to tell him. He knows this because he also knows her well enough to know her tells now. It's in the tight grip of her hands, in the hard line of her eyebrows refusing to show any inner turmoil. Gaby is a great poker player, at times rivaling even Napoleon, and…oh, how Illya wished she was not here.

But then, suddenly, something was different.

Illya could feel the change in the grip of her fingers, the way they tightened in an almost painful way. Her wedding band is digging into his skin, but he's been trained to withstand worse pain, and so his face gives nothing away. Looking in the rearview mirror, he locks eyes with the man holding the gun. The man has been warily staring at the two of them, back and forth to make sure everything went according to his plan. He had not said anything when Gaby placed her hand on Illya's, probably assuming she was afraid and reaching out for comfort from her husband. It made Illya slightly assured that their covers were still in place, otherwise the man might've been slightly less generous and slightly more violent.

That's when he feels the tapping. It's not coming from his fingers, this he knows, but from hers. And it's not the tapping of a ticking time bomb, like the steady beat when he does it, but a deliberate erratic tapping. After a few slow seconds, he realizes that it's morse code.

She's sending him a message.

Returning his eyes to the road, he silently tries to decipher what she's telling him.

 _Don't worry and don't move._

Is her first message, and it makes him edgy. Or at least edgier than he already was.

 _There is a gun in the lining of my seat._

His left hand tightens against the steering wheel and he forces himself to stay calm and not draw attention to the sudden chaos in his mind. There's no way for him to communicate his extreme disapproval of what he knows her next message will be, and he knows better than to even try and convince her otherwise. When Gaby has a plan, there's nothing he can do but either get out of her way, or help her in any way he can. (And when it comes to that choice, there really is no choice.)

 _When I give the signal, swerve to the left._

Ok, so maybe he didn't know exactly where her plan was headed, but he knew he would be following her directions anyway. It was hard to not follow her lead; it was becoming second nature to him now. The thought hadn't frightened him as much as it would have a few months ago.

 _Now_.

In the end, it doesn't take six seconds, but sixty. And by the time Illya straightens out the steering wheel, bringing them back to the right side of the road, there's no longer a gun pressed to his head. When he looks to his right, he sees her completely turned around, her back pressed against the dashboard, and both guns, the would-be assailants and Gaby's, are both resting comfortably in her hands and are now pointed in the direction of the man's nose.

"Husband," her voice is light and jovial, and he fights the beginnings of a smile, but does nothing for the affection rapidly bursting in his chest. "Would you be a dear and take care of this man for me? I'd much rather prefer to drive."

"Of course, Liebling." He responds in German, promptly bringing the car to the side of the road, and out of sight of witnesses.

* * *

The title is a play on Lana Del Rey's "Brooklyn Baby."


End file.
